Her Flaw
by Lady Angelic
Summary: The only flaw she held as proof of her human nature was him. An intimate moment between our favorite villains. Rated M for violence and sexual references. One shot. Nolanverse.


She was scar-less, a pure white canvas without marks. She was a never ending plain. Her skin stretched on for eternity across her stomach, drawing taut around her ribs and dipping in around her hips. Her heart beat was visible just above her stomach. She lay across the bed, the sheets having been stripped and piled in a corner. Her only line of defense was a pair of underpants, which did little more than cover her buttocks. A perfect angel slept within her snowy skin.

He sat at the other edge of the bed, knees curled up towards his face, arms loosely draped over them. He sighed, lowering his chin to rest upon his wrists. She was an angel, that was for sure. His eyes had studied her for at least three hours now. And it was now that he was sure there was a reasoning behind the way her hair could whirl around her head like a halo. She was beyond pristine to him, and it gnawed at his gut every day he looked at her.

It was a total contradiction and there were moments when he wanted to peel her skin from her body, just so he felt less like a monster. He was hideous by comparison. It made him frown, made his eyes darken and turn to steel. She was flawless in every way, physically. The way she stretched to touch her toes, the way she kicked so high and could knock a man's tooth from his mouth, the way she slept so soundly.

She stirred momentarily and he held his breath, concerned suddenly he had woken her up. She went back to rest, curling in on her side, hands held toward her face. He let the breath escape his lungs. His eyes followed the curve of her hip, the dips of her waist, along the summits of her breasts until he rested upon her face again. Her mouth was only slightly open, and her eyes were shut. He could see her baby-blues hidden beneath, however, in his mind. The way she could look at a man could break him instantly, or turn him into a beast.

He was normally that beast. The way she would look at him, the misconceives glint in her eye would send him growling towards her. She would playfully squeal as he picked her up in his arms and threw her onto the bed, the sofa, an unsuspecting kitchen counter. She would squirm and he would pin her down. She would push and he would pull at her. It was all a game. And when the game would turn serious and she would sit atop him, glorious and bare, the look in her eye would change.

He could feel himself breaking beneath her in those moments. She could strip him of any title or preconceived idea. He would be no more than a man staring up into her eyes. She would see him for all he was.

He hated her the first time she looked at him that way. He had thrown her off of him and followed after her with a swift punch to her face, bruising the eye that had dared look at him in such a way. She had cried out then, and he hit her again, just to shut her up. Her sobs had grown too loud for his like and he stood over her, screaming all the while about how she was a stupid-cunt-how-could-you-do-something-like-that before spitting viciously at her and sending an furious kick to her ribs.

He had stormed out of the room that night without an ounce of clothing on his back and prowled around the abandoned building in which they were residing, throwing broken furniture and busting holes through the walls. It had enraged him beyond words the first time she had looked at him in such a way. He was all knots and twisty things inside and he wanted to scream, wanted to tear her little blue eyes from her skull.

She didn't talk to him for a week, didn't look at him for even longer.

But he had grown used to the way she did everything so childishly, with such wonder and innocence that he slowly grew accustomed to her revealing gaze. He tried, time and time again, to beat her of that innocence, to smash and crack it out of her. It never worked. He tried ignoring her, and left her locked in a closet for two days once, just because he didn't want her to look at him. That, too, didn't work.

He hated the way she looked past his scars, past his manic laugh and brooding exterior. He tried smothering her face into a pillow just so she wouldn't have the power in those moments. Those moments... He was man and monster in one in those moments. He had heard screams at the actions of his hands many times, but never moans. And in those moments he could feel the very molecules of his self morphing. No longer was he a monster who destroyed human beings, but a man sweating and snarling and pushing so hard just for one moment of clarity.

And in the aftermath he left destruction.

Never had he destroyed something so precious as her porcelain skin. He had bruised it, sure. He hit her so hard once her skin actually split and she bled all over his favorite pair of shorts. He broke a rib of hers that day in retaliation. But never did he cut her. He branded her with words, a burning tongue or biting comment. All of his men knew she wasn't one to be messed with. One perceived wrong look was a sure end to a sad, short life. He was wary of their gazes and made it clear he didn't fool around, despite his always grinning face. He cut a man's eyes out for giving _his_ Harley the wrong look.

Her makeup was smeared all over the bare mattress beneath her. She had forgotten to wash her face, once again. He knew there would be remnants of it on his skin as well. She had a way of pressing her face all over his arms and chest whenever they got rough together. She must have known how much it annoyed him to have to not only clean his paint from himself, but hers as well.

He hadn't washed his face, either, he remembered.

He was sure he looked awful and exhausted. It was exactly how he felt, though. Exhausted. It was very tiring, in fact, to do just what he did. Sure, robbing and blackmailing and turning Gotham on it's head was easy enough. But defending. He wasn't so good at that. Or at least, that's how he felt every time he had to crack his hand against someone's face for saying the wrong thing or looking to long. It wasn't his honor he was worried about, but her's.

No. He was sure it wasn't hers either. Who would care for such a little trollop? Not him. He loved nothing. He cared for nothing other than chaos.

He sighed again and rubbed at his eyes, smearing his makeup and created a large gray mess. He wiped the backs of his hands on his chest and climbed off the bed. She was an angel, that was for sure. His angel, to be exact.

Fetching the switchblade from his coat pocket, which had been left on the floor, he held it with consideration. He fingered it, remembering the way it felt in his hands before gripping it with determination and walking back towards the bed.

He placed the tip of the blade just above her hip, having rolled her towards him. Pressing with the accuracy of a surgeon, he swiftly carved a "J" in her skin. She awoke with a start, barking out a cry of disapproval and pushing at his hand. She nicked herself on the blade and was bleeding from her hand as well as her hip. She pressed the two parts together, hand pushing firmly on her hip and glared up at him, head still swimming from her sleep. She was met by his smile, a kind of horrid thing to be greeted with when first awake. He closed the blade and turned from her, placing it back in the pocket of his coat.

She had been a pure white canvas for which he had never marked. Until that moment. And now the only flaw she held as proof of her human nature was him. His name, his branding and mark. He was what pulled her from the divine and confined her to be human. _He_ was her flaw.


End file.
